


Twenty-One

by framedhim



Category: Supernatural RPF
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-04-28
Updated: 2014-04-28
Packaged: 2018-01-21 03:15:12
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,678
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1535516
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/framedhim/pseuds/framedhim
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Title:  Twenty-One<br/>Author:  framedhim<br/>Pairing:  Jensen/Jared<br/>Rating:  NC-17<br/>Warnings:  Underage (brief mention of teenagers watching one another j/o), comeplay<br/>Disclaimer:  Own nothing, not an accurate representation of these actors, pure work of fiction<br/>Summary:  Jared sends a very special care package to his partner, who’s on his last deployment.  Each item stirs up old memories.<br/>Note:  For wendy’s prompt at <a href="http://salt-burn-porn.livejournal.com/">salt_burn_porn</a> of <em>care package</em> on livejournal.  Excellent challenge!<br/>Beta'd by the wonderful <a href="https://archiveofourown.org/users/gentsnshackles/pseuds/gentsnshackles/">gentsnshackles</a><br/>This is my first ever J2.  I’m a Wincest writer and have one Dean/Jared under my belt, so this is strange new worlds different.  It’s a hot mess of something, idek.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Twenty-One

+

There have been at least twenty before.  At least.  First and Ten are vivid memories, the clarity of the details never seeming to fuzz through the years, and Jared thinks that that’s appropriate, his mind holding core valuables hostage.  A few in the middle were heavier on the essentials with only the occasional card of Love or Missing or Laughing at You, You Missed the Super Bowl ~ J/K, here’s the recording, and you’re welcome. 

Twenty care packages throughout Jared and Jensen’s time together, and Jared’s packing Twenty-One, the last one for the last deployment, and this he won’t forget either.

Little things, the small details slip past him:  The eggs on the stovetop, boiling until they crack and ruin with their insides squishing out, or not remembering the green plastic folder for the night’s project.  Openly waiting for him at work and left on top his desk, sole material that holds all thirteen laminated construction paper stars with the names of his students written meticulously in black sharpie.  There’s the four o’clock lunch date nearly missed with his…with Tanya, forgotten until the iPhone’s alarm tipped him off, and why he hadn’t set the damn thing for an hour before, he had no clue. 

Prackton’s Deli was a sixteen-minute drive to find her sitting, relaxed, water glass in hand and the other hand holding her chin.  She was dressed in a flowy maxi-dress he’d picked out for her (Jensen thought the soft material was perfect), sandy blonde hair piled in a messy bun, and wearing her signature pinkish lip stain, and she’d leveled a look of knowing at a scattered, flustered Jared. He’d bent to kiss the sun-drenched locks and caught a moment of what he so desperately missed. Her eyebrows cinched tight the slight worry lines of her forehead at the click of his swallow before she first ordered him sit and then them both a Merlot and chef salad. 

Little things, but this in the now, the box in front of him and the package item list and the address label all ground him.

Their new rescue whines awfully, long coat of white and grey and orange brushing up against him.  She flops out on her side, only to panic and jump up playfully, using perhaps a teaspoonful of actively pinging brain cells.  Hot breath huffs against his calves as she circles the table where he's standing, leaning over, and she growls throatily. 

Talking, Jared thinks.  She wants to go outside and play, but he can’t.  Jared can’t take a break or else the task will become too melancholy, so he stays put, his bare feet glued to the spot as his toes hook into the lush shag of the area rug.  Clemmie’s blue rubber squeaky ball will have to wait.  The plaything slips from her mouth, the orange stripe of it caught haphazardly on a tooth, and it hangs, dangles there before Jared can get his wits about him, before he can even function and assemble Twenty-One.  The ball plops to the living room floor, lies there in a tiny puddle of dog saliva as Jared struggles to tamp down on the overwhelming heartache that rises like reflux, threatens him so solidly that his stomach drops, falls ten stories. 

Day five and some mere hours until Day 6—when the goods are due, according to the phone tree message.  Kristy Millens is the top branch of the relay machine, the chipper spouse who’s quick and succinct in telling Jared all he needs to know about how very little time there is before deadline.  Frustration slams into him, same as always in those days before, the unwanted sludge of not being able to do anything but continue carrying on.

So, he goes about conversing with the new pup and counts down the number of times this particular type box has been formed, how fast it takes for the sound of cardboard being shaped and handled to become an irritation to his ears as it grates against the palm of his hand.  Allows the memories to flood back as he sorts through the list of goods, tallies them with what’s laid out in small piles around the table, the importance of Twenty-One.

+

Jensen Ackles is on the fast-track.  Gayle Ackles didn’t raise an idiot, and while his dad will hotly contest that with a sly smirk and a crack of his huge hand against Jensen’s back, Jensen stands by his upbringing.  There are a few AP classes that he might've benefited from, but it’s his senior year, and between the course load and baseball and working his ass off to earn extra cash for his new truck, it’s enough.  Any extra mileage is going to burn him out before graduation, and forget handling boot camp at that rate.

Jared knows this, keeps watch from the sidelines, from his own spot on the basketball court as Jensen’s small group piles into the bleachers every JV game because Jensen doesn’t seem to fuck around with half-assing anything, including being a stand-up school spirit support system.  Oh, the lunch room has its tales of jocks being put in their place by the tall blond that sports a letterman jacket and a no-nonsense approach to the geeks pranks (Jared’s friends, some of them), and many of those stories include a very pissed-off Ackles. 

Jared knows Mrs. Gayle through PTSA meetings his own mother drags him to in order for them to fit in.  They’re the new family, the ones with the silver minivan with his sister’s gymnastics stickers plastered on the corner of the back windshield, who moved to this part of northern Texas as soon as Jared’s father landed his residency in the downtown hospital emergency room.  Moved right on into the first typical brick, Texas two-story in the city’s more middle-class suburbs,  natives but still outsiders despite living here for going on four years now, and Jared feels those thoughts no matter how many friends he makes and jokes with, feels them whenever he walks through the school’s halls. 

So, Mrs. G., she takes a liking to Jared, and Brian Ackles, who accompanies his wife as that’s what he’s told to do, he feels that his wife’s thoughts on the matter are quite enough consideration.  Clarkston High’s after-school buzzer sounds off right as Brian finishes hearing out Jared’s answers to what his plans are for the summer and how he’s enjoying being new to the area (four years, Jared thinks).  Brian claps Jared on the back like Jared’s seen him do to Jensen a countless hundred times after his games, and it spikes a thrill of belonging in Jared that settles him, eases the tension in his gut and his stance. 

Decided he’s fine with the boy, Mr. B. tells Jared such.  There’s steak to grill, yesterday’s crossword puzzle on the back deck, and a beer that is a more pressing issue than the school’s paper budget, all things Jensen’s father declares as he walks out the school cafeteria, nodding to Jared as if they’ve shared something important. 

Jared enjoys that even better and only freaks a little when he spots Jensen standing at the back of the cafeteria, staring at Jared, keeps on staring even as he wrestles with an armful of little sister and the other hand with a stack of papers.  Jensen nods to him, funny expression crossing his face with the slight tug of a smirk, and Jared wants to apologize for some odd reason, to tell Jensen he’s not cozying up or stealing affections but that’s weird to think or say, and he settles for shuffling his feet and tipping his chin in response.   

After, as always was, Jensen works on meeting nights.  He doesn’t run into Jared during school, much.  It’s a new awareness, and Jared has no reasoning for why it makes him stand taller, shoulders back and eyes forward so that he can catch the senior’s eyes all the way down the hall.  They both tower ridiculously over the majority of the other students, so the task isn’t difficult.  They don’t speak to one another.  Jared doesn’t ever meet Jensen over at his house, and Jensen’s never had the opportunity to expand or laugh or be embarrassed with him about Mrs. G.'s adjectives for Jared:  adorable, smart as a whip, bless your heart--so tall and thin—bet you eat your mom and dad out of house and home. 

Jensen’s job is to sort produce at the family owned grocery store.  It's a six-minute drive from the high school, a fifteen minute drive from Jensen's, and a twenty from Jared's. Jared finds that knowing this, figuring the distances, might qualify for some soul-searching over obsessions.  Wonders if Jensen would find it off-putting. 

Everyone shops at Pingley’s Grocery, worried the economy is going to tank and trying to pinch a few pennies without suffering quality.  Jared finds him there, and yes, he was trying, right as he sets down a two-liter jug of grape soda in his cart.  Jensen’s plunking down a head of cauliflower, freeing him to corral a young toddler who’d snuck away from her mom, the child happily eating grapes off the floor.  Summer heat makes them all groggy: Jensen slowly catching Jared’s eye, not smiling but not upset as he hefts the chubby child off the ground and placed her on his hip; Jared blushing as he grips the cart tight and struggles to turn it in order to find an open checkout lane.

The bagger works at a snail's pace, and Jared fidgets with the money his mom gave him until it’s time to pay.  The 101-degree heat hits him square in the chest as he pushes out the grocery store, hoping his dad’s maroon sedan will magically be closer than where he parked it.  His mom is elsewhere in one of the neighboring shops, but she'd given him the keys and a means to a/c.  Tucking the groceries carefully into the trunk, Jared catches his finger on something sharp and swears out loud, slams the lid, and nearly keels over as Jensen’s face is _right there_.  

“You’re a freshman.”   It’s not an introduction, but Jared’s not going to strike down conversation based on Jensen’s lack of formalities.  Especially not when he himself is near sick on the strangest sensations of lightheadedness--doesn't help that the closer Jensen moves into his personal bubble, the stranger Jared feels.  When he doesn’t answer, can’t from the thickness of his tongue or something, fuck, Jensen’s expression edges into worry.  “You’re bleeding.” 

Correction, Jared thinks, he’s also a messed-up bag of something because it suddenly registers the senior is touching his wrist, has a firm grip on his hand, is closely inspecting Jared's bleeding middle finger.  Jared might die. 

“What?” He mumbles the question, blinking at Jensen because he has no idea what Jensen just said.

“Dude, c’mon.  Suck that in your mouth. Looks ugly, but you’ll live until you get home.  It’s Jared, right?”  Jensen is thankfully ignoring Jared's lack of brain function.  He watches him as if Jared is in danger of falling out on the blistering asphalt, and Jared’s not sure if that’s the reason why there’s literally no space between the two of them.  Whatever it is, Jared can't imagine asking Jensen to step back.  It makes no sense, the pull he has towards the senior.  So, of course, Jared's brain overrides normal conversation tactics, latches on to Jensen’s orders and complies.  He sticks the bloody tip of his finger in his mouth.  The tart tang hits him, snaps him out of his fog, and Jensen steps forward.  Never takes his eyes off Jared as he tugs Jared’s finger out of his mouth and gruffly wraps it in a small bit of cloth. 

“Tore the edge of my apron.  It’s clean.  Your dad’s a doctor or a nurse or something, right?  So, you know the whole routine.”

By the time his mind decides to switch online, he's watching Jensen’s bowlegged ass walking away, heading back inside.  Jared’s mom comes walking out the plaza's florist shop, arms full with two sunflowers, stems wrapped in newspaper, and a small planter of red miniature roses.

They stop at a fast-food drive-thru to pick up dinner, and the sedan’s a/c blasts quietly for several minutes before Jared’s nerves catch up with him and the words finally shake free.  Suburbia rushes past his window, and a croaky version of a song that was never meant for country tumbles out the speakers. 

“Okay, Jensen.” 

If his mom looks at him a little funny, then she’ll have to jump on the wondering train.  He's just as lost.

+

A small scrap of white lies off to the side of Twenty-One, next to a plastic Ziploc bag filled with Jolly Rancher candies.  Navy regulations on information for the next port call are tight, submarine regs sometimes more so, so the spouses are told not to send chocolates in case the port is hot and the chocolates melt.  Jared hopes to hell Jensen’s favorite candies make the trip this one last time without becoming an equally gooey mess. 

Twenty-One has the essentials:  NYT crossword puzzles, torn out with accompanying answers to avoid rage; Old Spice deodorant; a coconut scrub body wash that Jensen swears he hates yet insists on using because, hello, no better exfoliation; toothpaste for sensitive teeth; black socks. 

Twenty-One is packed tightly but has room for the mementos, and Jared’s fists unclench, anxiety pounding in his head when he reaches for the candy bag and presses Jensen's torn scrap of apron to his lips before he packs them.

+

Suburban life can stagnate.  Eat, sleep, school, work, sports.  Of course, that’s life across the United States, but it feels specific in its tediousness where Jared is concerned.  Friend extraordinaire, Jensen, rescues him on more than one occasion.  Bike rides that take them past monument parks, training up in baseball fields, running to one another’s house all of five miles one way. 

“I’m too old for this shit.”

Snatching his sweat-soaked face towel back from Jensen's hands, Jared trips over his own feet trying to sit the fuck down.  His limbs, his entire body, are on some wild trip to lengthen at crazed increments.  Expansion that leaves him forever unbalanced, and Jensen squeezes his eyes shut and doubles over laughing as Jared damn near face-plants. Jared lands haphazard on the patio, legs askew, and has to practically fend off furious licks of joy from his cantankerous mutt of a dog. 

Once he has his ass firmly seated next to his red-cheeked best friend, pushes the blond lab/collie/benji type mix away with a laugh, he manages to gets his breath back.  “You’re only seventeen.  Boot camp's right around the corner, better not start whining too early, prissy britches.”

Jensen volunteered for the Navy at the start of his senior year, fulfillment of a childhood dream.  He's enlisting even though his mom’s livid about missed officer opportunities.  He's told Jared about his research, shown him the bookcase in his room full of military history and combat vehicles.  He says he knows he’s leaving behind a disgruntled, soon-to-be fourteen year old who, while pissed, still supports Jensen’s decision one hundred percent.  He wants Jared to know he couldn't ask for a better parting gift--Jared's acceptance.  Jensen tells him he knows what it's like to be unsure, knows he's leaving behind a fourteen-year-old who still feels strangely different from others.  

Jared hasn't told him how upsetting it's been to feel all the  _things_ around Jensen.  Jared thinks it makes him a freak, doesn't want to push away the best thing that's happened to him in a long, long time.  Two months since officially meeting in that grocery parking lot, and none of that has dissipated.

Jensen answers the gentle barbs and the questioning emotions playing all over Jared's face, answers like his life depends on it.  Jensen rambles a fast blur of a speech, telling Jared that he’s never going to forget him, that he’s seventeen and has no business hanging around a thirteen year old.  Says his friends think he’s nuts, but Jensen has always known his path, has planned for what he wants, kept the goals on a straight and narrow, and having Jared involved seems to blend into the fabric of the grand scheme.

Not actually being told this master plan is somewhat disheartening to Jared.  He doesn't get the jist of what Jensen's trying to say.  The troubling thought fades as Jensen bumps their shoulders and rubs them together jokingly.  The sensation along his side tingles like a brand when Jensen brushes fully against him and stands, adjusts himself, and tells Jared he’s into, into him.  Informs him that Jared’s best girl friend figured him out, confronted him in-between third and fourth period, and threatened his life with a clarinet if Jensen so much as broke one piece of Jared’s heart.  Green colors more than just Jensen’s eyes, tired acceptance in the planes of his face.  His face shutters briefly, and he looks towards Mr. Abner's backyard, keeps staring at the towering wooden playset visible over Jared's fence.  

Jared struggles to comprehend what he sees in Jensen's drawn brows when he turns to look at Jared again.  There's the concerted efforts of resolve written there, and the words of being outed trip off his best friend's lips.  There's the desperation that Jared catches beneath a split-second change as Jensen stands rigid, steels himself, like he'll take whatever Jared doles out.  Ragged breaths make Jensen's sweat-stained shirt rumple, stick against his chest as he tells Jared he thinks he has this right, will wait for Jared, but that if he's wrong, if Jared wants to kick his ass, that’s fine.

“I get it if you’re angry.” Dark navy shorts flash out into the middle of the yard, and Jensen holds his arms out.  Ready to suffer a beat down, resigned to take an ass-whooping, and Jared’s mouth tries to form around the burst of understanding on the past few months of uncertain issues. 

“Oh.  Okay, then.”  Fear sloughs off like a physical thing.  Falls on the ground and spreads around Jared, threatens to open up and swallow him whole, but there’s another boy standing out in the middle of his backyard just as frightened, with a hell of a lot more at stake than a lanky teenager trying to wrestle him down.  There’s this boy in front of him, the boy's freckled face a shade too pink from the sun, who’s going to be Jared’s someday, and the fear of a long, lonely road crawls back into Jared until he's crying. 

Hands are at his face and knees in the cooked grass, Jensen suddenly in his space.  Jensen curses and apologizes, promises he’ll leave.  Roughened hands, Jared’s own, wipe away the wet and the snot, and he stops blubbering, gets a grip on the building panic in order to stand strong over Jensen’s hunched form.  Black bean soup is on the stove, its cumin scents drifting out the vents, and for dessert, there’s lemon-iced cake, and there's a pitcher of sweet sun tea that sits, iced and waiting, in the fridge. 

“I said okay.  So, I’m…I’d like to give that a try when we’re, you know.”

“Swear to God, Jared, I’d never fuckin’ try a thing without your permission and until you're older.”

As someone who has paid attention for a long while, Jared notices all the subtle tells in how Jensen falls apart, quiet demeanor unraveling.  Jared wants to learn, to be in public one day when the world isn’t so--so tightly wound around the idea of sin and a boy and another one maybe being more.  Wants to always see the effortless, carefree spirit Jensen wears around him, wants the world to know that Jensen laughs with abandon, that he struts like a moron just to hear Jared laugh, and that Jensen’s true smile is not the trained, learned thing that he shines at the world.  Nope, it's an easy and messy and faltering with occasional smirks, and Jared’s addicted now, wants the world to one day know the real score.

The sun is setting, the air chilling so rapidly that it raises goosebumps along Jared's arms, and Mrs. Tern’s dog next door is losing it's brain, chasing Jared’s dog around the wooden fence perimeter of the yard.  When Jared lifts his chin and nods, shoves his hand out to shake on it, their comfortable quiet is back.  The sliding door opens, and they go in to eat.

+

Lemon-iced cake.  The recipe is written on a tea-stained note card, the harsh, cursive handwriting unique to Jared's mom barely legible.  Not that Jensen needs to read it, considering baking is his nemesis.  It's that he’s well liked on the boat, and the CSS (culinary specialists) coddle Jared's partner.  They'll have no qualms throwing the recipe together if they have the ingredients in supply.

The last time the cake appeared in their own home, Jensen had just turned thirty, and Jared swore he was never touching food kinks again.  

“There’s icing in the crack of my ass.  How is that appealing to you in any way?”  Jared had half-sat up to look down his body, hand finding purchase on top Jensen’s short hair, ruffling and scrunching the spiky ends.

Jensen had peered up at him from between Jared's thighs, a dancing smile in his eyes.  Answered with his tongue along the seam of Jared’s balls, licking the sugary confection all the way down until he rimmed Jared speechless, hand smacking a fiery red imprint on his boyfriend’s ass.  Jensen always did enjoy proving his points until they stuck solid, unwavering.

The recipe card goes in Twenty-One, laid out on top of the candy Ziploc, and Jared has to sit down, open his legs wide to adjust himself.

+

Boot camp lasts Nine Weeks.  The leather bound journal Jared keeps hidden in his bedroom, carefully tucked under his mattress, has the words in bold, capitalized just so.  The entries follow:  Three Months of A school, Six Months of Specialized Training, and Three Months in further Specialized Training.  Sea Command.  Shore Command.  Where do we fit in?

Jensen went all out and got himself in the Nuke program.  Enlisted.  Shipped off after a tearful (private) graduation party slash vacation spent at home.  They made a plan, a list, a small effort to cope with the encroaching changes happening all at once. 

Lucy’s Diner was the hangout choice for seclusion.  The waitresses older, tired, didn't care past making good tips, the aqua blue naugahyde booths in the back where they could hold hands under the table without being noticed.  Jared’s best girl friend came with most nights and sat with them, blithely ignored them as she studied her algebra, made them appear less than what they were.  She was Jared’s go to of her own volition, intelligent enough to get by on her own, “Thank you very much,” as she jabbed an elbow.  She sat with them, held Jared later that night as he shook apart in her arms.  Jensen’s flight left the next day for NAVSTA Great Lakes, and Jared wasn't allowed to send him off.

Wouldn’t that have been a sight.  Two Southern boys hugging, happened to be gay in a very unappreciative of that world, decent age difference, and Jensen said it all meant he couldn’t, wouldn’t lay a finger on Jared.  A kiss on the cheek in the privacy of Jared’s bedroom.  No petting, only watching the other jerk off.  It wasn’t about remaining chaste.  It was respect until they were older, until Jensen had Jared of age, and the reasons made sense, unless you were asking Jared’s dick. 

“Too risky right now, Jared.” 

There was Don’t Ask, Don’t Tell.  All the reasons above paled, and Jensen worked too hard, Jared had planned for the future in too many specifics to allow a risk of any kind.

Jensen would write a series of letters all through their relationship, some Jared wished he could burn, let the yellowing edges blacken, the words of guilt and hate and shame along with it.

He doesn't though.  The leather bound journal fills until it’s bursting full with letters, both the ugly and the loved.  He brings out the letter Jensen writes him from Prototype in Charleston, the one with a coffee spill on the right edge because Jensen likes to write and drink his coffee early in the morning before anyone else shows up to class.  Jensen's careless in his writing like he never is verbally, a free flowing thought process, and Jared loves the paper, loves his boyfriend even through the months of not seeing one another, weekend reprieves few and far between.

He sees the words and knows it’s time.  Jensen’s to report to the USS Dallas a week after he leaves prototype.  Jared’s not even out of high school.  Tanya is his best girl friend, still, everyone thinks they’re dating, and she’s fine with that because she has no interest in anything but getting the hell outta dodge and taking Jared with her.  She says they can go wherever Jensen is stationed, within reason.  It’ll work.  They have to study, work hard, save every last dime.  They have to accept the reality of junior college courses until they can settle.

It’s time though.  Jensen wrote that he wants Jared to date, wants him to find someone to kiss and get off with, someone to fuck.  Not love, Jensen's not that selfless, and Jared's heart doesn't have the room.  He thinks that somehow it seems right.  Biology class, there’s a boy.  Sweet-tempered, body a tease with long legs and a mop of sandy colored hair and the sight of him makes Jared fidget in his desk.  He volleys the thoughts back to Jensen, every detail, because it’s the right thing to do even though it hurts like hell.  Someday, Jensen will be his, and Jared can’t imagine secrets between them.  Letters between them.  Hot words.  Angry words.  Sexual frustration.  Jensen says they have to stop writing them, doesn’t want to invite trouble.

There’s been recent investigations that weren’t legal, but no one is reinstating anyone.  There’s been hate crimes, military men killed by their own for nothing more than their orientation, and the words on the page start bleeding together in a frantic pacing.  Scared for Jared’s safety.  No touching, not until Jared’s of age, until Jensen can touch (still illegal) in the privacy of their own room. 

Tanya sits with him while he writes the last.  He wishes his boyfriend well, wishes him nothing but the best.  Says he loves him and goodbye for a few, and that it will all be okay.

+

The envelope Jensen brought with him to Jared and Tanya's apartment, after Jensen's first deployment, first successful boat tour, and start of his first shore tour.  They can claim what’s  between them, the apartment is thirty minutes away from the base up the Virginia peninsula.  

The envelope still has a smear of blood, from where they were too forceful, fighting with nasty words and shoves (no hits, save it for the gym) and collapsing against a shattered end table.  It’s that last letter, and Jared had been waiting for him, of age, his own damn money. 

The last letter that Jensen kept for well over two years, Jared grips it tight in the present day and tucks it into Twenty-One.  It has every right to be there.  The good, the ugly, the balance.

+

The first time Jensen describes, in as much detail as he's allowed, his job aboard his first fast attack boat is the first time Jared lines their cocks up, slick with pre-cum, and jerks them off.  It's after the same night Jensen arrives at the apartment, their shoves and jealous shouts had brought Tanya running into the living room, screaming, threatening to call the police on both their sorry hides.  It's the infamous letter, and Jensen throws it back in Jared’s possession.

It's early next morning, neither having slept from talking.  All night long.  That people will assume Jared and Tanya, that Jensen will sign the lease.  That this is Jensen's home, sharing Jared's bed for an astonishing two whole years. 

“Shore command really starts in two weeks.  I’m on paid leave to find a place to live.  Leave meaning, I’m off, but I still have to check-in.  And checking in early is best so I can start getting pre-quals and quals out of the…what?”

Jensen’s wearing a great pair of jeans, the back pockets look fantastic hugging the curve of his butt, and his hair’s so damn short that not a strand is rumpled from earlier which makes Jared want to laugh.  So, he does.  And then he cuts Jensen off by backing him against the kitchen counter, careful of the brewing coffee, and Jared butts his forehead against his boyfriend’s, pops the button, and unzips to gain room.  Fingernails scratch unfamiliar territory—Jensen’s abs are firm, and there's a delicious line of hair down, down, down, and surprisingly soft.  He lets his thumb rub tiny circles as far down on Jensen’s groin as he can reach, wants more even as Jensen blinks, dazed, and leans in to kiss a _yes_ into Jared’s mouth. 

They both know what this is like, that stupid letter and two whole years, but it helps having experience under his belt when Jensen follows suit and unzips him.  Jared knows now (Biology class) that he enjoys the reversal more, his arms gripped and held tight, but he’s just trying to lead them forward into this, grabs Jensen’s hands and pushes them back onto the granite countertop.  Holds his own over them until there’s no resistance.  Releases one hand to move aside the cotton fabric, pull Jensen’s length out through the slit in his boxers.  Looks down and stares and gives a long, slow tug up, cups and rubs the palm of his hand over the head of Jensen’s dick, and slides down on pre-cum.  He groans when Jensen gives a bodily shake, leans his head back to expose the long line of his neck.

“You.  Stay.”  And Jared pats Jensen’s other hand, releasing to hurriedly pull his own cock out, wet head sticking to the slit of his own boxers before he tugs a little more.  He’s hot in his own hand, a familiar weight and length that he budges up against Jensen’s.  Fat girth of them together strains his hand, so he uses both hands, presses a kiss to Jensen’s throat, makes a noise and spits.  The long line of it stretches, hits the tips of their cocks, and Jared pulls himself out of watching his hands twist and rub, looks into Jensen’s face—surprise and want, warring.

“Do that again.”

Jared doesn’t smile, and that’s okay because neither does Jensen.  Apparently, rubbing off together for the first time is serious fucking business.  There’s a growl about to break loose from Jensen’s throat, and it has Jared following the order.  Again.  Let’s the spit pool in his mouth before he spits out onto their hands, and Jensen shouts as he makes a mess of the both of them.  Jerks twice against the length of vein rubbing up on his own cock, hips stuttering forward, and cums all over the place. 

“God damn it, old man.  _Fuck yes_.”  Sensitive or not, Jared twists them together, strokes hard and fast on the upstroke and gentle on the down, spit and cum as lube, and it’s the slickest ride of his life.  His socked foot slips as he tries to grind, so he pitches forward, all 6’4” of himself leaning hard on his smaller boyfriend.  Amusing as it is to think of Jensen as small in any way, the laugh sticks in his chest.  Jensen's hand is wedged between them, and he palms up on Jared’s nuts like it’s his job, rolls them around until Jared’s orgasm blind sides him.

They are a wreck.  The kitchen is an unsanitary disaster.  Tanya’s very beautiful art deco-ish, very pricey dish towel is the next unfortunate victim as Jared makes a wobbly, pathetic reach for it on the counter and begins to wipe them down. 

“I am not old, you little shit.”  Jensen's lips tug in a smile even with the sharp tone, and he waves away the now sticky towel as he hip checks Jared back off him so that he can turn around, grab a few paper towels, and flip on the hot water.  Orange spiced soap scent wafts through the air, and Jared laments his future issues with this scent.  Washing dishes and scrubbing up are going to make him hard enough to pound nails.

“At least you got to live to a ripe age, Yoda.  Enjoy it.  Tanya’s gonna scalp me if she finds out what I did to her towel.”

+

Needless to say, Jared puts a twin of that towel into Twenty-One.  It becomes painfully obvious he’ll need to put Clemmie out with each flashback.  No need to scar her for life.  Although, the piles are gone now, and the only thing left to be packed is a small slip of paper rolled into a tiny scroll tied atop a black leather case.  That and a large envelope with their new address and the return address of The McIntyre Law Firm written in fine point font.  Everything, including the ten new boxer-briefs Jensen's fond of, is packed except those two items. 

He carefully fits them in, the box and scroll first, then the manila envelope.  Seals Twenty-One shut.  This is it, the last box for the last port call on their last deployment.

They’ve weathered nosy neighbors despite Jared and Tanya’s faux marriage.  The bill certainly wasn’t fake, although Jared’s mother and father footed that at their own request.  Not before taking Jensen out to dinner, by himself, and reconnecting and assuring.  Assurances.  They’ve had little.  The government that Jensen defends has been against them in policy from the start.  They’re not special, nothing above any of the others who fall under the discrimination. 

They’ve dealt with not going to important functions, to Jensen going solo and being lauded as an eternal playboy, to riding out fights over unwarranted jealousy after Jared found out what some of the other sailors get up to overseas and with Jensen after watching his lonely boyfriend perk up at the attentions of other men.   The road has not been easy.  Times have changed though, Jensen is retiring in three after this last shore tour, and the new president ushered in the repeal of Don’t Ask, Don’t Tell on the voices of protest many years ago.  

Label on for the FPO, Jared signs off on the (x) and takes Twenty-One to be mailed. 

+

“The divorce papers are right here, sweetie.”  She pushes the manila envelope towards him, their divorce signed on the dotted line.  It’s time.

“You’re moving with us.  I’m starting at the elementary school, first grade this time.  You’ll have access to me, the shopping, the skiing is one hour away, access to me.”

The waiter brings Tanya another glass of Merlot, leans in low so that she can practically smell the server's cologne. She wants.

“…and the new home has a finished downstairs basement that’s its own separate apartment.”

Lunch dates with Jared are always hit and miss.  He and Jensen are so in sync, they don’t realize much of the world around them has to fight to get a sample of what they have.  She wears the dress Jared picked—the man has impeccable taste and a softie for a partner who likes it when Jared dresses her up.  It’s strange, but she’s been by each of their sides for so long, she doesn’t know any other way. 

It’s about time she changed that.   When the check arrives, she snatches it as usual.  Tanya has never relied on either man to sustain her.  It’s a lie, one she’s made her peace with, and as she signs over the tab, black binder under her hands, it’s over.

“No.  It’s time.  You’ll be okay.”

+

Jensen has been on the fast track his entire life.  Leg up by upper-middle class parents help, he’s privileged and knows it.  Makes amends for his own peace of mind by being the reliable one.  The guy the entire command, no matter where he’s stationed, knows they can count on.  Master Chief has made things happen, has procured some magic shit that he’ll never tell anyone was luck of the draw combined with a career's worth of contacts, has put in his time.

Master Chief Ackles is ready to retire, stares the remaining three years down with a hardened glare and an easier touch towards his sailors.  He's honed, fine-tuned into what makes a sailor not only do his job, but do it well.  Knows when it's time to cut a sailor loose, send them to the fleet, and he has the time in, the respect earned, for the higher-ups to take those recommendations seriously.   He’s done, bone-deep tired from the constant underways, the small confines of submarine life on eighteen hour days with little communication.  Doubly so in the light of his life with his partner.  There’s a weary ache that settles between his eyes when he thinks of how much Jared has sacrificed to live this life with him.

The lies they’ve had to tell.  The look of disgust they both receive when it's realized how often, how much Jensen and Jared have lied. The paranoia when someone snooped too close.  The not seeing one another months and months and …

Nevertheless, they’ve made it, trudged Jared through every environment possible just like any other Navy couple, and like some others, his partner earns his own wages and buys his own health insurance.  It costs them a damn fortune, like half the country suffers, but the need is infuriating.  If Jensen dies, Jared earns none of the benefits even though he's served his time just as much as Jensen.  

When Jensen thinks on it, he chokes himself on tying his own tie.  Wouldn’t that be special, he thinks.  He pulled a duty day on the day they pulled back in to port, so it’s a day late, planned with Jared in advance, but still special.  The last one.  Ever.  And Jensen has one last job to perform, issues that he can now rectify.  Legally.  

He picks up Twenty-One, climbs up the trunk, steps off the USS Albany, and heads home.

+

“Jared.”

Jensen knows Jared’s a little speechless, mentally preens under his partner's attention.  They’re dress blues after all:  dark coat with Jensen’s ‘been a good boy’ gold stripes around the cuffs, ribbon rows complete with three Battle E's, dark pants, and cover on as he's still standing under the porchlight. 

Twenty-One is tucked under his arm as Jared looks his fill, unwavering look of love and want.  Jensen lives for these moments.  Lives for this man.

“Master Chief.”

The serious expression and bark of laughter Jensen is trying to control both fail him.  Jared is going to catch him off guard.  Oh, no siree.  Jared Padalecki set this entire thing up, and Jensen’s going to see the damn thing through to the end. 

“Mister…excuse me, sir, but what do the students in this particular town call their new teacher?”

On Jared’s mumbled answer of Mr. Padluck, Jensen stays with the original wording because _no_.  “Mister Padalecki, I’m going to highly suggest we go into the house.  That or Mrs. Tern is going to need therapy for all the unholy things that are about to unfold on our front porch.”

Finally something that gets Jared’s grin to falter, and he stammers out a timid little comeback to which Jensen is officially having no more of it.  Waiting. Whatever.  “Jared Padalecki, I have something here in Twenty-One that needs attending to in my own special way, and you not moving your fine little ass to make that come to fruition is giving us both blue balls.  What say you light a fire under it and fucking move, pretty boy.”

Jared doesn’t half look where he’s going, tripping over his own feet like he used to as a kid, and Jensen’s half through that small but brilliant pep talk when he realizes he’s crowded his partner against the door to their bedroom.  Intently studying Jared like he can see all their past, everything he holds dear to him in this beautiful man.  The emotions and the need to own everything right now are too much.

“Don’t kick it, Jensen!  I’ll open the door, jesus.”  That’s it, that’s all Jared gets to say as he opens the door and makes it to the bed and falls flat on his back.  Jensen’s not far behind, cover off and thrown somewhere over by their dresser, and Twenty-One is set on the seat of the plush lounge chair by the bed. 

Manila folder out, so that Jared and Tanya’s divorce papers fan out for both of them to see.  The dish towel gets thrown down by Jared’s head.     

“You are a romantic.  Now strip.”  He feels awfully sorry, hopes Jared can read minds because all the words are stuck in his throat.  Six months with only his own hand, the thought of what Jared’s set in motion too heady. 

His partner does not disappoint.  Jared takes his time, lifting up his shirt to expose cut abs, a chest that Jensen pointedly notices is hairier since the ‘no shaving, just maintaining’ talk, and all the blood drops. All of it.  Jensen’s so hard, he’s going to have to spin a miracle out not to shoot off before he can work Jared over.  The white dress shirt is unbuttoned to some extent, it’s hanging open at least, and he gave up on his taking his tie off when Jared slipped both his jeans and boxers off.  His partner’s dick springs up and slaps his belly and fuck but Jensen will simply have to choke to death on his loosened tie noose because he’s trembling and there needs to be fucking happening right now.

His pants slip off via magic, says so because he sure as fuck is too rushed to remember, and Jared scoffs at him.  Jared pulls a fast one and sits up, scoots his bare ass to the edge of the bed as his cock bounces everywhere, and Jensen groans.  He pointedly stops Jared’s mouth coming closer to his own dick, because Jared’s tongue is like silk.  It’ll rip an orgasm out of him on a good day.  This is not that day.  This is a tense situation, and there’s a plan that has been scrapped.

The next words barely slip out through gritted teeth, and while he wants to close his eyes to regain his composure and woo his man, he can’t do that for fear of losing track of a very horny, very limber boyfriend.  “How is this happening?”

Before Jensen starts crying, the answer is out.  Jared is going to decide and make it all okay:  He puts his feet on the floor, lies back on the bed, and jerks himself, thumbing his glans like he has all the time in the world to get off.  Swirls the bead of sticky pre-cum around, brings it up to his mouth and licks it off.  The resulting _pop_ is loud in the room, when he says, “Me, tonight.  No prep, did it earlier.” 

The bed rattles and shakes from the force of Jensen grabbing hold of Jared’s legs, his own jamming against the bed, and wraps Jared’s around his narrow hips with an unspoken order.  Hold ‘em.  Don’t let them fall.

When he lines up and sinks in, Jensen practically buckles.  Thanks him profusely, an embarrassing number of times actually, for planning ahead.  Jared’s warm and wet, tight, and the pace Jensen sets a mere two pumps in is frenetic.  Jared manages to grab hold of his own dick, hanging on for life as Jensen tilts him up, angles down his strokes, and it’s there.  Jared is not a religious man, but that doesn't stop the amen that threatens to burst forth.  It’s been forever and a day, Jensen’s biceps lifting Jared’s lower half clear off the bed.  Jared's shoulders are supporting his upper half, the strain in his abs must be burning, and Jensen honestly regrets not having a camera because the love of his life is a goddamn sight to see.  Jensen’s thighs shiver with the strain as works himself into Jared harder, his ass cheeks clenched tight as Jared stops panting, open his eyes and the pupils are blown wide.  He locks up, seizes so tight that Jensen can’t move. 

Ropes of release splatter, one hitting Jensen’s eyelid, a small taste along the corner of his mouth.  Jared looks dumbfounded, stunned silent and mouth open as Jensen drops forward, pushing his lover up the bed so that he can grind in slow, grip Jared’s hands and hold them to the bed.  Like he knows Jared gets off on.  His release hits him hard, press of his teeth against the younger man’s shoulder.  

It’s later, as they’re rolled over away from the wet spot, Jared spooned back into him, that he takes the small case out of Twenty-One.  Kisses up Jared’s shoulder blades and explores with his fingers up ribs and the slide down on sculpted musculature, until Jared is close to purring.  Places the leather case along with a brand new one he’d purchased overseas, same leather, side by side in Jared’s line of sight.  The watches aren’t the same, but they’re precisely paired.  The tiny scroll of a proposal for forever is unfolded across the new one, and in Jared’s, a tiny scroll with a simple ‘I do’ lies against the silver band of the watch. 

“It’s time.  And it’s all going to be okay.”


End file.
